Page 26 of A Heart So Haunted
Mom and Vince had met in college. From what little I’d been able to piece together—through her inflated, ever-changing stories and the tidbits of information I’d gathered from Aunt Cadence or other adults in my mother’s life over the past few years—they had been the toxic couple that should have broken up long before I had been born. They’d bonded over drugs, then were on-again, off-again until one had convinced the other that getting married would change things.
Then The Affair happened.
I didn’t blame her for spiraling. She’d sunk into depression, refused help, and turned to substances, which she’d racked up a probation for after I was born. She’d taken his child support money and blown it without a second thought, then cried herself to sleep every night while I curled on my bed, knees to my chest.
There was no custody battle. No arguments over vehicles. Only child support and the removal of both my mother and me from his life.
Vince didn’t take me on weekends. He didn’t come visit on my birthday. He sent one Christmas card when I was ten, only for Mom to shred it like it held the plague. I reached out once a year on his birthday.
The last time he’d called was my college graduation. Asked me to come over for lunch. I’d let myself gain a teeny, tiny bit of hope as I’d driven four hours to his coastal home. Maybe seeing me as an adult would make him realize how much he’d missed. Maybe he regretted his lack of involvement.
That evening he’d offered to pay off my tuition loans. He was a lawyer. Had plenty of money, he said.
“I don’t need it,” I said.
One, because the money would only be a consolation for all his missed time. And two, because I couldn’t guarantee that Mom wouldn’t find a way to take it before I managed to move out.
And if I took it, I would be indebted. I couldn’t pay back something I didn’t possess, let alone from someone who wouldn’t deign to see me half the time.
“We already agreed to pay Emma’s, Lan,” he’d gone on, in his marble kitchen with his stainless-steel appliances, while his phone vibrated on the counter every couple of seconds.
I wondered if it was a mistress calling him. If Emma was there, she’d have written it down in her notes and dissected it later.
“No,” I’d said. “I can pay for it myself.”
“Student debt is no easy feat to pay off,” he urged, distracted. He unwound himself from his perch on the barstool when his phone started to vibrate again. “Just promise me you’ll think about it.”
He didn’t look up when he retrieved the phone, pressed it to his ear, and walked away. I was left sitting on the recliner arm, purse cradled in my lap, eyes stuck to the spot he’d just vacated.
He opened the sliding door to the back patio.
“Hey, no, I’m not busy.” It closed.
Was it bad that I wanted him to argue with me? Tomakeme take the money? To tell me I was being ridiculous, to take the handout, to just let him be a father for once?
But he didn’t say anything about being a father. Only that he’d paid for Emma’s, therefore he must pay for mine.
An emptiness settled in my bones.
Emma hadn’ttold me. It shouldn’t have hurt. But for some reason, it did. Maybe she figured if she was to suffer a continuous broken home, why not take what he offered?
Did that mean I was spiteful because I hadn’t taken it?
I pulled myself back to the present. The phone whispered in my ear—not a deadline, just the sound of my mom waiting. Simmering.
“Do you want me to send you part of her ashes?” I asked, voice small.
One, three, five fiery heartbeats.
Mom’s single-word answer twisted the knife further. “No.”
The line went dead.
Birds chattered as my box cutter ripped through the packaging tape.
The kitchen smelled of primer, newspaper, and hot Lowcountry air. A final, neatly arranged assortment of decorative roosters stood at attention in the breakfast nook to my right. Somewhere upstairs, a faint procession of thuds vibrated through the walls. Sayer was taking action on one of the guest bathrooms, trying to remove the shelving unit from above the toilet so we could stain it with the cabinets tomorrow.
I’d spent the better part of my day base-painting the kitchen, which had been a bloody russet red and had takenthreecoats of white to correct. I waited for the paint to dry while sorting through knickknacks, then starting on the first layer of sage-green paint. The cabinets would be next. I’d take the doors off, sand, and stain them to a bright driftwood brown before reattaching the doors and touching up the trim. Then I’d get the handles screwed on.
